


Keeper of the Inquisition

by PinkAfroPuffs



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Better Treatment of Dalish gods hopefully, F/M, Female Character of Color, Gen, interracial relationship (without humans)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: "People are simple, da'len. Especially shemlen. Sometimes, it is only a matter of putting your foot down at the right time or the wrong time, that turns the tide in the fate of the world. I have it on good faith that you know which is which," said the Keeper, and Robin, who knew the validity of that claim, only smiled.





	1. Robin Lavellan, Keeper of the Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

> The thing is, I've been on an Inquisition kick lately, and frankly, I've got a LOT of gripes about how they treat elves and elven culture. Also slavery. Especially the slavery. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! I'm not sure how long it will be, but I'll be writing for her for a little while. Please send kudos and comments if you like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If someone must do it, it might as well be me."

“Da’len, I want you to go to the Conclave.”

Robin Lavellan secretly disliked when Keeper Istimaethoriel called her ‘da’len’. Surely, though she was not old by way of the People, she was  _ quite _ a ways along, by human standards- and since they traded with them often, she assumed that was what counted. After all, by being in contact with them, they aged. By proxy, that made her forty-two. “The Conclave? With the mess about the shemlen and their mage war?”

“Yes. It will be important. We’re in the crosshairs of the shemlen, da’len. You must make haste,” she’d said, insistent. 

She’d had a very bad feeling about all of it, from the skin of her fingers down to the roots of her short red hair. Still, she’d agreed, made the trek alone, and then the Conclave had exploded.

Now, her left hand stung.

It was an ugly green color, not unlike the earth but off base from the pretty deep sea green she wore on her lips, and it sparked and sputtered whenever she got near those cursed holes in the sky. 

“Amazing,” she’d said.

“What is?” Solas, the mage fighting near the reinforcements, caught her interest at first, as she wondered, upon meeting him, if he were a friend or foe. One never could tell with other elves without vallaslin. “The sky? Dangerous though it may be, it is a marvel of nature, isn’t it?”

“You misunderstand me,” she admitted, “it’s amazing that I’ve never hated anything more.”

* * *

 

It was pretty silly to feel like she was raising more children, but there she was, standing in a Chantry and listening to a bunch of humans bicker back and forth over what they were going to do. Mages this, templars that. The decision was easy to anyone with a brain, and frankly, after she let them escalate a little, she said, “Be quiet.”

They seemed surprised to hear her speak at all, though she thought it was a little interesting that they hadn’t been thrown off by her presence. Back home, people thought she was stern, especially because of her eyes. Some of the children even called her ‘hahren’ from time to time. Wasn’t sure she liked that. 

“It’s already clear what course of action we’re going to take,” she said. “And if I’m going to be meeting with them, I’ll decide when we go. Is that good enough for all of you?”

This seemed to please them to a certain point, so she nodded. For extra measure, she added, “Do you all need me to decide what’s for dinner too?”

The Antivan, Montilyet, sort of pressed her lips into a thin line, not unlike she was holding back a laugh, and so did Leliana (who Robin only bothered to remember because she had been kind to her at first, and very pretty besides), who shook her head. The sharp cheek-boned one, though. She harrumphed a little, but was the only one courageous enough to speak. “No, Herald. We are fine on that front.”

The former templar looked the silliest. She wondered if he’d ever met a mage he did not kill outright, or if that was just her feeling. He was a little handsome for a young man, though. She’d think about it later, maybe. “I..” He coughed. “Right. I suppose that’s all, then.”

“Good. I’ll set out to help some refugees, since that’s everyone’s business at least,” she inclined her head. “Creators guide your path while I’m gone.”

* * *

 

She was quite ready to be called ‘knife-ear’. Given her history with shemlen traders and the like, she’d heard that slur often, and though it was largely ignored, it didn’t mean her guard wasn’t up and ready for it at all times. What she was not ready for was the very careful, “Who said that to you?”

Robin raised an eyebrow at the Antivan- Josephine, yes, that was her name!- surprised to see her rising to her defense. “Excuse me?”

“You said someone called you knife-ear in passing. Who was it? Do you know any names?” She was already scribbling something on her pad, brow creased in anger and some frustration at what Robin thought was inconsequential. After all, she had to deal with it everyday. 

“No, I was just…” Amused, her eyes roamed Josephine’s face. “...you surprised me. I expected an uncomfortable laugh.”

The Ambassador shook her head, the line of her pretty nose and mouth screwing up just so to show how averse she was to this. “You, Herald, are our hope in causing stability. Anyone who would belittle you for who you are, or how you look, has no right to be in our Inquisition, especially with you leading it. You will have a reputation to uphold, soon.  _ We _ must have a reputation,” she half-snapped, half informed, “and I will  _ not _ have anyone undermine you, not even our noble guests.”

Robin decided she liked Josephine immediately, and felt sorry for not remembering her name first. “...well then. Thank you.”

“Of course, Herald.” She smiled a bit. 

“Robin. Call me Robin.”

* * *

 

“So...Keeper, was it?”

Again with this hahren. He was very nosy, and Robin felt a  _ bit _ annoyed by it, despite wanting to be polite about it. “First  _ to _ the Keeper, hahren. I’m not quite a Keeper yet.” Though she wanted to be.

“I did not mean to be rude. Though I see you truly are Dalish, given your ideas of our culture.” His tone denoted disapproval, and Robin suddenly felt the two agreed on that. She did not like this man, with his hobo clothing and how he judged her without even speaking to her. 

“I am. Proudly so,” she told him, watching his reaction. “Though I’m unsure of why you think saying it will make me feel upset about it.”

His lip twitched a bit. “The People chase phantoms. Clearly, they have strayed from the old ways.”

“Of course we have,” she could feel something stirring in her, something hot and dangerous. Volatile. “We’ve been enslaved and beaten, shoved around. It’s a given when most of us has been eradicated, much less barely surviving.”

He sobered a bit at this, obviously sensing her anger. “I did not mean to offend.”

“Of course not. You would know the truth of those statements better than me, hahren.” An incline of her head meant that she meant no disrespect, though of course she had. “ _ Ir abelas _ . I did not mean to offend either.”

This seemed to please him; she noted that he seemed more into the idea of his ideals being the best, and apologizing if you were to ever challenge him, and filed it away with what she thought of him. At the moment, he was not interesting in the slightest. “Do you have any questions for me, then?”

She knew why he was asking. She also knew why she had to say, “Yes. If you would hear them.”

* * *

 

“Why do you introduce yourself like that?”

Robin wished she could quell the more invasive questions when they were out travelling, especially when she wanted very much to like everyone, but she could not. “Like what?”

Sera was watching her with interest as they jogged through the Hinterlands, her lip puffing out just a bit. “With your whole name and everythin’. Not everbody has to know, right? And it’s like, a mouthful. Why not just ‘Robin’ or ‘Herald’ or somethin’?”

This was a reasonable enough question, though. She rather liked Sera, though, with her simple answers to complicated questions, so she indulged her. “So people don’t make a mistake about who I am, or who we are. It’s important to people that they know I am Robin, and that I am Dalish. I know that you know as well that people hate elves for one reason or another, and it’s nice to show them it’s mostly unfounded.”

This seemed to please her a little bit, which, admittedly, put her at ease. “Guess so. Makes you sound real ‘up there’, though.”

“That’s alright,” she smiled. “That means people know to trust me when I bring them blankets, or can trust when I bring them ram’s meat, that it isn’t poisoned or old. Besides,” she grinned, “if I do it, you don’t have to.”

She seemed to like that too. “So, you suck up to people, and I cover your arse with arrows. All works out, yeah?”

“Perfectly,” she agreed. “Inquisition is pleased to have you with us.”

Robin didn’t have to look back to see Sera making a face at her, as it was in her tone when she spoke, and in her mannerisms with her bow (which she could hear, as Sera put it away). “You’re not be formal to me too, are you?”

She turned to look at her straight on, watching her expression as she thought about it. “I don’t….want to be.” But that was such a hard concept for her. She knew what being casual was  _ supposed _ to sound like, but, “Maybe I’m just a more formal person? A bit too uptight, I’ve been told?”

“I mean, we can fix that,” Sera shrugged. “Just take a couple a whacks here n’ there, that’s all.”

A couple of whacks, huh. She shrugged a little, but it was hard not to smile. “I certainly hope a couple of whacks is all it takes. Oh!” She pulled out her journal and flipped through it, glancing through the notes until she found what she was looking for. “Maybe we can start with this. There’s a druffalo that’s run away from his farm. Maybe that could be fun.”

“Those are stubborn animals,” Varric piped in. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation up until this point, seeing as he hadn’t added anything for the past five or so minutes. “So I think it’d be  _ funny _ , but not that much fun.”

Robin pressed her hands together. “...well, then let’s do something funny but not that much fun!”

* * *

It was not the druffalo, but the  _ rift _ that made it all very not-fun. First of all, Robin had never seen a Despair demon before, and now that she had, she was pretty sure she never wanted to see one again.

“Why is the blasted rift  _ right _ over the ravine!” She griped. “Creators, it’s like….! Like a mean joke! How did the druffalo even get  _ past _ the demons in the chaos!” It was here that she walked to the middle of the ravine, quite a ways from the powerful rift, and screamed, “Dread Wolf take you, you green piece of shit!”

There was a snicker behind her, and then a couple of other coughs; when she whirled to see who it was,  _ all _ of her companions averted their eyes. “What? What’s so funny?”

“I don’t think you need any help loosening up,” Iron Bull informed her, nodding just a tiny bit. “I think you’ve got that down to a tee.”

“This was  _ definitely _ funny,” Varric decided, arms crossed. “I wish I had a camera.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind.”

Water sloshed past her high laced boots as she stepped past her companions, leading the animal back to his pen before she said, “I think. That’s enough. For today.” She took in a sharp breath through her nose and ran her fingers through her hair, short enough to not snag her fingers in the mess. “I think it might be enough for the week, actually. Next time, we’re going to the Storm Coast.”

“You like the rain better than the rifts, eh?”

“I like the bloody rain better than this  _ entire _ ordeal,” she hissed. “Pack it up, crew. It’s time for dinner.” Creators guide her path, though she partially cursed them for bringing her here. “And a bath. A long path to wash off the impurity of that bloody despair demon.”

At Haven, after a nice, long bath, she found herself staring into the glass in front of her bed. The woman in the mirror startled her; vallaslin deep-sea green with the markings of Dirthamen, her lips bare and her eyes, lost, she did not recognize this person staring back at her, nor did she want to. Cloudy and undefined, she wiped some of the steam from it, carefully taking note of what she was staring at.

The Inquisition was aimless. True, they set out to help refugees and fix the hole in the sky, but nothing more. There was no direction in their teachings, their soldiers’ mobilization, and at the end of the day, they were lost. Like that woman’s eyes. She didn’t know where she belonged.

_ “You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor.” _

She’d been very quick to tell The Iron Bull that maybe it should be her, but now...now it didn’t quite feel right. That woman there, the one in the mirror, she was no Inquisitor. Not really. 

The little oval mirror fell on its face, unbroken but unseeable; with a gentle click of her boots, she combed out her hair a bit with her fingers and then walked over to the Chantry. 

Her advisors were never unhappy to see her, thought they did seem surprised; Cullen, in particular, seemed on his toes, given that she’d been very snippy with him as of late, mostly because he talked a lot but never about anything interesting, and she’d said so. Despite this, all three other parties present greeted her, Leliana the first to ask, “Yes, Herald?”

“I’ll lead the Inquisition,” she announced. This surprised no one- actually they seemed quite relieved- but then she continued, “But not as Inquisitor.”

The three exchanged glances, Josephine especially worried. “...but, Herald-”

She held up her hand. “Let me finish, Ambassador. I will lead the Inquisition as its Keeper. If you want me to lead anything I have to do it my own way; I don’t care if outsiders call me Inquisitor, for the sake of appearances, but I would like for you all to either call me my name, or Keeper Lavellan. That is who I am, and that is who I will be to the Inquisition.”

Cullen opened his mouth and closed it, eyeing Leliana in a way that asked, ‘What on earth does she mean?’

Leliana seemed surprised, but also somewhat delighted; nodding as she thought about it, she tapped her fingers on the war table. “Keeper, you say? Like they have in Dalish clans?”

“Yes. I was next in line to my clan’s own Keeper, which means I know her duties- taking care of my clan in any ways I can- and was prepared to take over, should anything happen to her, or she decide to step down.” Robin closed her eyes. “The Inquisition is  _ my _ clan. As long as I can seal rifts and people claim I am the ‘Herald of Andraste’ I shall be the Keeper of the organization. I think it’s fair, seeing that it falls more in line of what I am able to do.”

Josephine wet her lips. “But...as far as reputations go, they will rally behind you as the ‘Herald’. If we correct them, we may lose support, or…”

“I don’t care what the shemlen outside call me. This is very important to me, Ambassador.” Yes. This felt  _ right _ . It felt good to say so, to speak up about something she’d been considering for the past two weeks. “You may think of Keeper and Inquisitor as interchangeable, as they’re of the same nature. But I believe Keeper is much more personal,” she explained. “I am only myself, looking out for my family. And that is how it should be.”

There was some silence at the table and they sort of mulled over it, though Leliana especially seemed delighted; Robin was still formulating her opinion on the spymaster, given the conflicting narratives she’d heard about her, so she wondered why Leliana was making that face. Inevitably, they came to a consensus, all of them seeming pleased with the result. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan-  _ Keeper _ Lavellan,” Cullen corrected himself, “you’ve got our full support.”

“It is good to have you on board, Keeper,” Leliana smiled. “I was beginning to worry when I heard you were..how did Varric put it? Cursing at Rifts?”

“They deserve to be cursed at.”

“I’ve no doubt about it,” she mused, and then she offered her hand. “I believe this will be an….interesting endeavor.”

Robin sort of smiled, watching her carefully, though she grasped her hand and shook it all the same. “Of course, Spymaster. Very nice to be working with you all.” She extended her other hand to Josephine first, and then, after a tiny bit of hesitation, to Cullen. “Robin Lavellan, Keeper of the Inquisition at your service.”

  
  
  



	2. From Robin, with Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plaidweave is just awful on anyone but Sera. Don't argue about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All elves I care about get Irish lilts. I have spoken.

“You know, Herald-”

“Robin. Call me my name.”

The correction was so immediate that she didn’t even look up at Seeker Pentaghast when she said it; wind tickling her long brown ears as she stood in the snow, Robin Lavellan, 42, watched the Seeker with some curiosity. As far as shemlen go, Cassandra was not the  _ worst _ \- in fact, even when they’d argued, she had been rather supportive of her decisions- but she was a very hard woman to talk to, for reasons Robin had yet to understand. Besides, if Cassandra wouldn’t call her ‘Keeper’, ‘Robin’ was the best she could do.

Cassandra did not seem put off by this, though she didn’t like the interruption. “...Robin, then. Are things much...different at your home than they are here?”

She spared a glance at the Seeker, raising her eyebrows at her. “Are you asking if being Dalish is like being a refugee?”

“Not at all. It’s...” She was clearly not good at words, but Robin didn’t hold that against her. Some people were better with words, and some people were better at fighting. It was rare to be gifted with both. Still, Robin was an expert at coaxing people into clearer ideas, and at this time she did it automatically. “...I know nothing about you or your people, is all. I was only curious.”

“I know nothing about you either, Seeker,” she replied easily, tucking her hair away from her ears a bit. “So if I answer some questions, will you answer mine? Just to be fair.”

“I...suppose that is fair. But you must go first.”

A very agreeable woman. Very nice. “Alright. What do you wish to know?”

The Seeker’s eyes bored into hers. “...where are you from?”

With a small sort of smile, she nodded. “Free Marches. But my clan, you know. We travel around. That’s sort of what nomads do,” she informed her, though not unkindly. “Clan Lavellan comes by way of Rivain.”

“I see.” She nodded politely, obviously mulling it over. “Now I suppose it is time for you to ask me one.”

“You suppose correctly.” Robin tilted her head at her a bit, then, “Are you single?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my question. We can’t keep on seriously forever, Cassandra.”

The Seeker made a face. She obviously disapproved. “I am not seeing anyone at this time, no.”

“Neither am I,” she nodded. “So we have something in common. Do you want to ask me something now?”

“No. I think I’m done for now,” she huffed, and Robin sort of watched as she went back to hitting the dummy, hoping Robin would ignore her.

“Alright. It was nice talking to you, Cassandra,” she told her. “And I wanted you to know I appreciate you very much. It’s quite hard to be an elf- and a mage- around people like  _ this _ . I just wanted to be friendly.”

Seeker Pentaghast stopped hitting the target for a moment, sparing her exactly  _ one _ glance before she turned away, but it was not lost on her. 

She hadn’t asked to be strange or cruel, or unkind; rather -and she mentally kept track of it- it was to gauge what was and what wasn’t off limits. Romantic relationships sounded a little touchy for her, so she would not discuss such things with Cassandra. Besides, that was easy enough to understand. She herself hadn’t  _ seen _ anyone in a very long time. It was because of this, actually, that upon realizing she could  _ date _ within the Inquisition, she immediately swore off of it.

“That sounds unprofessional,” she’d said immediately. “Given...my status as the uprunning Inquisitor, wouldn’t that make a working relationship imbalanced?”

Josephine sort of shrugged. “Well, we have no such rules. It’s not as though you have no checks and balances. You may decide things, but most decisions go through us first. Plus, I doubt you would ever have trouble restraining yourself when it comes to blending work and play.”

She was a little surprised (and somewhat pleased) that Josephine seemed to know her well enough already. “...I suppose you’re right. But I don’t plan on it.”

That was before The Iron Bull.

Actually, it was before the appearance of Blackwall  _ and _ The Iron Bull, both men who were mature enough for her tastes, but not at all boorish and were nonetheless charming, despite some other flaws- for instance, finding Blackwall in the forest. And, well, The Iron Bull hardly ever wore shirts (but how could she say anything to that! He’d said it was something about his culture, and that armor hadn’t been made big enough- oh. Whatever). 

It was very strange, to consider that  _ maybe _ she might want to court one or the other (or at least have a bit of fun), but it still put her off. It felt unprofessional, too unplanned, too...wrong.

….besides, she hadn’t done anything in a long time. That was a valid concern.

She flipped through the books at her disposal, thinking as she idly took in the information spilled across the pages.  _ Bears are weak to heat, if I focus at my center, my barrier can be stronger, demons and undead are similar but very different in nature- _

“Inquisitor? Ah….Keeper, was it?”

She glanced up at Dorian, who had his own armful of books, an easy smile gracing his lips as he met her eyes. “Inquisitor is good, Keeper is better,” she informed him. Really, he was quite easy on the eyes too, but she felt like she knew a man’s man when she met one. Besides, much like Iron Bull, he was very good with words, though comparing the two was like comparing night and day. 

“Keeper, then. I feel we haven’t gotten to talk much since...the fall of Haven.” He seemed to be gauging her reaction for something.  _ So he seems wary of me. _ She’d been friendly enough to him when they’d met and been stranded in the future, though she imagined she’d been a bit…..focused, during it. It had been a terrifying experience, and though she’d taken her cues from Dorian, in some ways she saw herself in that Leliana of the future, the rage, the hurt, the pain.

_ “This is fantasy to you. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real.” _

She  _ had _ told him she was glad he’d been there. She doubted she would have done so well with, say, Cassandra, despite how deeply she trusted her. Sometimes Cassandra was a bit  _ too _ ...well. It was hard to say. The only way she could put it was ‘narrow minded’ or ‘a horse wearing blinders’, and leading someone like that in that terrible future would have frustrated her so deeply she might not have come back at all.

Dorian, though. He joked, he smiled, he had that dry wit that Robin was able to put up with, but not banter properly with. It was like listening to birds singing, or one of the hahrens telling stories to the children. Good to listen, but not so easy to participate. 

“Yes. Since the recruitment of the mages, too.” She nodded, though she wasn’t sure of what to say about it. Thinking about it made her feel a bit upset with herself, made her lip curl with disdain. “I’m sorry about that. Lately, I’ve been dealing with...a lot, I suppose.” But she shouldn’t say so. That was a failure on her part.

“I figured as much,” he nodded sympathetically, taking a seat on the ground beside her. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” she lied easily, and though she hated lying, she knew how to be convincing. “Just a bit tired. How are you, Dorian? 

“Missing home,” he replied wistfully. “The longer I stay away, the more I miss it. Not the blood magic, though. Red really isn’t my color.”

She patted his hand sympathetically. “I think every color would look good on you.”

“Oh, you flatter me! Please, tell me more.”

She ran through a list of things she could say, though she only found one that was legitimate. Carefully, she grabbed a nug that had been racing around that floor of the library and held it in her lap. “I find it hard to talk to men,” she admitted quietly. “But you are very easy to talk to.”

“Really? Are you sure you should tell me that?”

“In confidence,” she closed her eyes. “It’s mostly because people fall into patterns. There are a lot of men who betray themselves by saying a couple of words, and they’re ingenuine. You aren’t like that. You’re more...honest.” She admitted. “And you care very much about other people.” This, too, was why she was a bit worried about pursing a relationship with Iron Bull or Blackwall. They seemed nice enough, but when they hadn’t betrayed themselves with their words, she knew  _ she _ would. She didn’t like that. It made her feel unguarded. Sort of like now.

Dorian sort of hummed. “Thank you. I’m...not sure what to say about that.”

“Let’s talk about something different.” She shifted, petting the nug in her lap. “We can talk about you?”

“My favorite subject,” he mused, though he did seem kind of like he was picking up on her game. “What do you wish to know?”

“What is Tevinter like, besides the magisters?” This was a mistake to ask; her brain began buzzing because of something, anything, as though she was broaching territory that she did not really need to hear about, did not want to know. 

“Well, it’s...the land is beautiful. The people, the practices...not so much.” He leaned back against the walled bookcase, careful not to push back to hard on it for fear of the books teetering and collapsing on top of them both. 

“What sort of practices? Other than the blood magic,” she wasn’t looking at him, listening to the silence of the library under Dorian’s voice, hoping to quiet that anxious feeling bubbling in her brain.

“Well...I’m sure you know about the slavery.”

Something snapped in the back of her brain. The buzzing stopped abruptly, and she could no longer feel the nug in her lap. “...mm.” Her mouth said.

Dorian stopped momentarily, gauging her reaction, though she could not see his face very clearly. “I promise it isn’t as bad as everyone says.”

What was that pulling sensation in her gut? She thought it was familiar, but she’d forced it down so far that it shouldn’t even have existed. Not anymore. “Oh? Do you mean it...isn’t slavery? Or it has been stamped out?”

“Oh, no. It’s more like…” Then he began speaking again, but it sounded like she’d dunked her head in the river and left it there for a number of minutes, as she had when she was twelve summers old, bloody and dirty, first coming into her magic in ways that burned her hands, shocked her knees-

She stood. It was hard to know what her face should look like to other people, or what expression she was making, or how quiet or loud her voice was, when she said, “That’s enough for now.”

He seemed startled by this, when her eyes organized his features properly, though her brain screamed at her about how he had no  _ right _ to be startled. “Alright.”

Without another word she walked down the stairs, careful and quiet, down the spires of the stairs until she was looking out at the courtyard. A deep breath. The chill of the winter air danced past her ears, gathering around her person like armor as she clenched her fists, pulling gently on her sleeves as she exhaled, turning her head this way and that as she considered the situation. Then, very easily, she walked back up the stairs.

When she was facing Dorian again, she watched him for a very long time, assessing him, a bit differently this time, but not hatefully. Differently. 

“Oh, you’ve returned! I thought I might have scared you off,” he started, and there  _ was _ a smidge of anxiety in his demeanor. 

“Do you think slavery is right?”

A pin-drop silence. “Well...that answer is complicated, isn’t it? There are a lot of factors.”

This answer was not good enough for her. Curious, she tilted her head, again, scrutinizing him. Naive. “Not really. It’s a yes or no question.”

“Well, no, not really? When a poor man is faced with his entire family living in poverty and a possible life of comfort as a slave, it’s a better alternative than death, isn’t it?”

She did not feel very much as she made her last assessment; clearly, he was still a boy, after all, and after living in Tevinter- no, after living as a rich mage in Tevinter, an  _ Altus _ \- he didn’t know anything. Not really. She tried not to hold it against him. 

“It isn’t.” Robin stood completely still, hands pressed together. “Though I see why you would think so. But what you’re proposing would rely on the goodwill of said masters. Of which there is usually none.”

_ This _ was when Dorian got a little agitated; clearly offended, he put his hands out in front of him, as though to make light of the subject. “I don’t think you can pass judgement on it, and neither can I, seeing as neither of us have ever been slaves, and are seeing it from an outsider’s perspective.”

He flinched under her gaze, especially when she smiled at him; it was not unkind, not hateful, but sad. It was painful. She could see in his eyes that he knew he’d made a mistake somewhere, though he wasn’t sure where. Not yet.

“You should never assume you know other people’s lives.” 

The clock hand moved. She could hear the soft tick-tick in the back of her brain, the shadow of a realization moving across his face. 

“And even after that, knowing that my people  _ were _ slaves _ ,” _ she whispered, “that we have writings, spoken history, and proof of what slavery does. Of what happens because of it. Of what happened to us.” She gently gestured to her face, to the markings of Dirthamen on her forehead, her cheeks, her lower lip. “This is a symbol of what we have left. The city burnings, the abuse, the  _ slavery _ ...Dorian, I am still feeling the effects of my people’s slavery to this day.” She pressed her hands together again, watching him carefully. 

“I’m…” His mouth opened and closed. “Forgive me. I...spoke out of turn.”

“It’s alright. There was no way of you knowing,” she hummed very softly. “Most people skate over elves, and what has happened to us. City elves who have lost everything, the Dalish who travel searching, and those in between, who are lost. I can’t say the same for humans, but losing your personhood to essentially become a part of a  _ house _ , as a  _ desperate _ bid for survival...it doesn’t sound at all like a good alternative to death. It sounds like a very slow and painful death.”

Silence settled between them. In order to break it, she nodded slowly. “It’s alright to apologize, Dorian. I don’t hate or dislike you, and I like to think that I still trust you. But you must  _ know _ . The very practice is harmful. The only people who benefit are masters- and when a master can never become a slave, they stop seeing them as people. Generations where they never see the enslaved as people pass, and suddenly,” she gestured broadly. “People hate them, even after they’ve achieved some sort of freedom. They find themselves superior to them for reasons they can’t explain.” She stared at her fingertips then, seeing flames of the past dancing across them. “Then they’re finding reasons to burn down their cities, rip them from their homes and do whatever they want to them for fun.” 

Her fingers knit themselves together over her stomach, and then behind her back. “I felt you needed to know. I feel many need to know.” 

She did not want to see him as she left, as she knew it would make her feel guilty; it was not right to be clear about something and then to go back on it, or to coddle someone who didn’t need to be coddled. 

* * *

 

“Keeper Lavellan, can I...talk to you?”

It had been at least a week, and she cradled a book under her arm as she made her way up to Leliana’s study to have a chat with her. Though she was expecting this- moreso, she had been surprised that Dorian had not protested more when she’d spoken to him before- and was steeled for the outcome, she still silently lamented the idea of losing a friendship. “Of course, Dorian. I’ve always got time for you.”

He gave her a kind of side-eye. “I’m not quite sure if you’re being sarcastic or not, but I guess I’ll go with it!” She was intrigued when she saw him mimicking her normal gestures; his hands clasped together and he rocked back on his heels a bit, considering his words carefully before he spoke again, though he seemed very settled on something. “I hope our conversation from the other day has not caused a rift between us?”

“It hasn’t.” She half-lied. Truly, she was hoping he had been thinking constructively about the entire ordeal, and was not hoping to argue with her again. In which case it  _ would _ cause a rift. 

“Good! I’ve been thinking,” he mused, “maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.”

“I  _ did _ ask,” she conceded, hoping to make him feel a bit better. “If it makes you feel less tense about it.” Her fingers brushed past a beautifully bound purple book on the shelf, which she carefully tipped towards her person and opened to the index of. 

“That sounds a bit like you’re spoiling me, Inquisitor,” he griped, and she noted his change in titles. She wondered if it was deliberate. Making her more human than elven. 

“Dorian, I told you what I did because I love you dearly,” she told him, turning to face him. “If I cared less, I would have left the conversation at that, and never dignified you with any criticism. I doubt I would have come to purposely talk to you anymore at all.”

“...I see. So now it comes out.” His voice was a bit quiet at this revelation, though she did not take her eyes from him, even when he looked away. “Are you expecting something of me, Inquisitor?”

Fingertips rubbed the emblem on the purple book cover as she nodded very slowly. “Yes. I expect that supplying you with new information would give bigger light to any issues.” She set the book down very carefully, gently pressing her hand down on top of it. “I expect not to fight about my personhood, or what I know about it. And I trust you to know the  _ difference _ between an accusation and education.”

“That seems like quite a bit.” He seemed a little impressed to be staring in the face of someone who expected  _ more _ of him, not less, and she knew that. After hearing the bit she did about his father, she decided that she’d do better for him as a friend.

“Yes, but you’re an intelligent man,” she nodded, eyes closing. “And  _ sometimes _ , a sharp dresser.”

He pressed his hand to his chest, miming an injury. “Oof, you wound me. Only sometimes?”

“You should never wear plaidweave. It does nothing for your coloring.”

“ _ That _ ,” he chuckled, pointing at her as though she was the funniest woman on earth, “I can agree on for sure.”


	3. House Repairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Bull Greatly Approves.

“I dunno. She’s real pretty n’ all that, but she’s like a mum, so like...you can’t just fuck’er,” Sera explained, which, coming into the conversation late, sounded _really_ bad. She’d pressed her hands to her cheeks, like she was having a conniption about it, complaining so loudly that anyone might think they were welcome to join in the conversation.

Iron Bull snorted, taking a sip from his drink. “Speak for yourself.”

“That’s coz _you’re_ an oldy!” She chided. “You don’t _have_ the same standards as the rest of us.”

“Damn right I don’t. Listen, Sera, older women are like...you know. More complex, but less.”

“I don’t get it. Explain it.”  
“They’ve got more experience with what they want, what they need from you. Less hassle, you know. Less games, more time for _fun_.” He seemed to be thinking about something, too, in between those words. “...besides, if you’re talking about the Keeper...I think you’re just mad that she won’t fuck _you_.”

“Can it,” Sera threw a towel at him, obviously caught. “Not fuckin’ funny!”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” He chuckled.

The gentle squelch of footsteps caught both of their ears; the tavern door closed and in walked the Keeper, the Inquisitor, Robin. Her hair was wet, mussed by the rain, and though her short, red hair flopped into her eyes, her gaze was no sharper than usual. She smiled very softly when she walked over to Iron Bull, soft still when her gaze turned to Sera, and when she spoke, it felt like the gentle thrum of drums, rhythmic and calming. “How are you two today?”

“Pretty good, boss,” he answered immediately, though Sera sort of tilted her head, a little upset.

“Better, I guess, since you’re here.” It sounds both parts sarcastic and genuine at once.

The Keeper pressed her hands together. “You don’t seem very happy to see me, Sera.”

“Well, no, not when-” Bull was making one of those faces, like he was ready to rat her out about something, so she stood up. “Piss, whatever, just forget it. Come get me if you need me.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” she nodded, and Sera raced out of the tavern past her. “What on earth could have gotten into that child?”

Iron Bull very much thought it was a good chance to tell her that she’d left because of what _hadn’t_ , but thought better of it. “Eh. Leave her be. What can I do for you, boss?”

“Mm…” She sat down on the floor in front of him, much like Sera had, watching him with twinkling eyes as she propped up her cheek on her fist. “I wanted to know more about you.”

He tried not to note how soft her voice sounded when she talked to him- surely, she spoke to everyone that way, in that affectionate but respectful way- and restrained himself from thinking further into it. Everyone wanted a piece of the Keeper, no matter how much she ignored it (because she did, he noticed. She brushed it off very casually, making it a non-issue) and he would not be chasing after her coattails, no matter how much her hips swayed when she walked, or how red her hair looked against her pretty brown skin. He would not focus on her clarity in the midst of chaos, and he would _certainly_ not focus on her gentle amusement when her eyes focused on him, like she was sharing a secret with herself.

The Iron Bull was not her puppy. Even though that might sound a little nice, from time to time.

“Sure. Shoot.”

* * *

 

“So, you and Beardy, huh?”

It didn’t seem to bother the Keeper to ask this, though Iron Bull felt his insides flinch _just_ a little bit. That was Sera. Blunt about everything.

Robin glanced back at her with interest. “Where’d you hear that, da’len?”

Sera seemed a tiny bit put off by the elven, but she continued, “Saw you two out by the barn, right? Talkin’ _reeeal_ close like, about somethin’. If you know what I mean.”

She laughed. “I see. Well,” and then there was a pause, as she usually did when carefully deciding on an answer, “I think you should be more careful about your assumptions.”

“What? You telling me my eyes bad?”

“No,” she smiled, patient. “I’m saying I’m not with Blackwall in that manner.”

“Pfft. If you say so.” Sera shrugged, watching as the Inquisitor gently placed flowers on a grave. The place was quite out of the way; it was no wonder that old elven man couldn’t make the trek out here, what with the fighting still going on. Though the danger had lessened thanks to their efforts, Robin had offered to take them anyway, and then said something to him in elven.

“May Sylaise bless your husband, Senna. He’s a good man.” She dusted off the debris on the grave before she stood, dusting her pants off before she turned. “Right. We should tell that man there’s nothing to worry about now. Then we can settle for the day.”

* * *

He shouldn’t have been interested at all in her frequent visits, nor did he want to become too used to how much attention she showered on him. Not the bad kind, either. The nice kind, that leaves you all tingly, like you’re valued. Wanted.

“So...what’s a Keeper do that’s so different than being Inquisitor?” He felt like he _should_ ask, because he could, and because he was mostly curious. “I know a little bit about the Dalish, but not much. Mostly just hearsay.”

She nodded a little, somewhat approving of the question. Maybe she liked that he gave her attention too. He wasn’t totally sure yet. “A Keeper, in Dalish clans, is a mage who watches over the people in her clan. It’s somewhat more personal than being ‘Inquisitor’- or at least I think so- and when I think of these people as my clan, I emphasize how I’m to take care of them. To guide them. To protect them. I like to think it keeps me grounded. I’m no king, and I’ve no interest in being one, either.”

He was a bit on the fence about this one, though he knew the feeling. The Iron Bull was a good captain, but a whole Inquisition? Nah. Still, hearing the Inquisitor say she didn’t exactly _want_ the job, or imply that it was too _big_ for her... “Inquisition’s too much?”

“No. A clan can be very big.” She draped an arm over her knee, somewhat pleased to explain. “But the title...it’s very human. It doesn’t carry much weight to me. The _job_ though, I can handle. Sometimes a Keeper makes tough decisions for her clan, to keep them alive, and safe. Sometimes, she prepares them for war. Often she educates. Often she fights.”

Now _that_ he could understand. Humans got it in their heads that everything they did, everything that existed, revolved around them. Titles like “Inquisitor” or “Commander”- those were human things. _Keeper_ was better than Inquisitor for her, and it said everything one needed to know about Robin Lavellan, but it was shorter, simpler. He liked that. All he could do to show it was a sort of grunt of approval.

“That’s also why I was glad when you showed me those soldiers, Bull,” her eyebrows furrowed, thinking very hard about what she would say next. After a pause, she decided to explain, “I worry much about the humans here, and how they treat each other, especially under me. I know they don’t understand what Keeper means, but I desperately hope it is felt.”

There it was again. She used powerful words when she needed a connection; he knew because she was so introspective- and aware of it- that she liked being precise about her feelings. Her thoughts. He also respected that. That worry creased in her brow, though. An anxious storm was brewing between them.

“It is, boss. Don’t worry so much.”

She seemed a little surprised-touched?- that he said this to her, instead of leaving the conversation be, or changing the subject, one of her hands pulling at the other’s glove. A little puff of air escaped her nose, loud enough to make a sound, and she sort of smiled. “...I’m glad you think so.”

He wanted to say he knew so, knew how the soldiers who talked to her, who saw her, who _met_ Robin Lavellan were always somewhat impressed with her. They compared her to their Andraste a lot. He knew a little about that (how could he not, when it was all anyone in this part of the world talked about) and after hearing the descriptions, he admitted he saw a resemblance. She was definitely their Herald, whether she liked it or not.

“...remember when all those undead were up, swinging swords and shit at us when we went to get those soldiers?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “I singed my best coat and accidentally beaned Varric in the head with a healing grenade?”

He snorted. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Do you remember the soldiers? What they said when we found them?”

Her foot moved, thinking back, eyes searching the ceiling. “They were glad we’d come for them.” The unspoken _why wouldn’t they be?_ hung in the air, and Bull sort of nodded.

“They were glad _you_ ’d come for them. That you cared enough to come personally.”

Her features softened in such a lovely manner he forgot to breathe for a moment; she smiled, and then _laughed_ , tossing her head back just slightly at the memory. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

He shrugged it off. “I just know how to tell the truth. And, you know. Lie a little.”

“Always good to lie a little,” she brushed her pants off and stood again, crossing her arms as she studied him, the smile- not that _soft_ smile, something different, something new- still gracing her lips. “It was nice talking to you, Bull.”

He knew this was how she signalled her departure, so he nodded and raised his drink to her a bit in parting. “See you later, boss.”

* * *

 

“You know,” she was peeling an orange when she said this, sitting beside him in front of the campfire, “Blackwall told me to call him if I needed to do some heavy lifting.”

Bull wasn’t stupid. He had a feeling that bringing Blackwall up meant she was trying to tell him something. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm,” she nodded, tilting her head a little. She handed an orange slice to him, which he took on instinct. “I didn’t, though. I don’t need any heavy lifting done, per se. Or not only that.”

Careful about reading too much into the conversation, he popped the orange into his mouth, watching the flames lick at their boots. “Then what _do_ you need?”

When she turned to look at him, chin up as she measured him, her eyes narrowed just slightly, thoughtful. What was she thinking about? “I need someone who’s willing to help me paint, fix cabinets. Maybe fix a broken sink. I can do heavy lifting myself. What I need is someone who can do the rest with me, too.” She offered some more of the orange, which he accepted, again.

“Pretty sure Blackwall could do that.” He replied easily.

“I’d like to do it _without_ the drama,” she teased. “I love Blackwall dearly, but there is something about him that is...strange. He debuffed me the moment we came to Skyhold.” She informed him suddenly, which surprised him.

“...huh.” So maybe Sera _had_ gotten it right at first, but wrong.

“Right.” She mused, taking a stick to tend the fire. “Sera’s a smart girl, but she got it a little wrong.”

He felt a bit like she’d read his mind, his eye sliding to her in suspicion. “You gonna eat that?”

She was still holding her half of the orange; her expression changed suddenly, and he knew she probably realized she’d been feeding him the whole time. Which was sweet. But she’d almost forgotten about herself. “...no.” She said at first, staring at it.

“You should.”

“....hm.” A toss of her head and a sigh. But she popped one into her mouth anyway. Her shoulders, too, visibly relaxed. She probably hadn’t eaten much since morning. Just potions.

“...you know,” he said, against his better judgement, “I know a thing or two about paint and repairs.”

A smiled played at her lips as she popped the last of her orange into her mouth. “Oh? I didn’t peg you for a handyman.”

He barked a tiny laugh. “I’m not. But I know a little somethingabout _fixing pipes_.”

Amused, her eyes scanned his person before she decidedly threw her stick into the fire. She took a few more moments to sort out what she wanted to say, tilting her head a little bit when she looked at him head on, smirking just a smidge. “I’d need to see your resume before you start helping out, if that’s alright? In private.”

That was clear enough for him. “I’ll think about it,” his lip twitched behind his raised mug.  He’d already done his thinking on the subject, but it was better to be mysterious about it. She already knew his answer, after all.

* * *

 

“Bull.”

He raised his gaze to her, watching with interest. “Boss.”

She seemed to be thinking about something. Then, “Are you still willing to paint some windows with me?”

He grinned a bit, despite himself. “I thought you said paint some walls.”

“Windows need paint too.”

He shifted in his seat a little, a bit smug. “I could come paint some windows, if you want. Surprised you aren’t tired from the work we did _last_ , though.”

This was when she laughed. _Really_ laughed. She tossed her head back just a bit, arms locking behind her back as she studied him. It was a different look. Less judgemental, he thought. Maybe it was because she'd seen his underclothes. “I’ll admit, you did me in good, but it’ll take more than that to keep me from doing my work.”

“Right. I’ll do better next time,” he warned, and she nodded slowly, eyeing him as she took up the challenge. He wasn’t surprised, though. And he _would_ do better, given it was his job, now.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she agreed. “But for now. For now I think we need to talk.”

“About?”

“What do you want from _me_ , Bull?”

It was his turn to laugh now; of course she’d ask. That was all she thought about. How comfortable other people were. “I’m fine, boss. You don’t need to worry about me.”

She began studying him again, arms crossed over her chest this time. “...hm.” Though she didn’t seem to accept that answer, she sort of nodded, shifting her weight a bit as she swayed, coat fluttering behind her as she went. “Alright. About...our relationship, though.”

He shrugged. “We can keep it light and casual, if you want,” it was clear she did _not_ want that, so he said it just as an option, “or more serious. But I won’t be _with_ anyone else while we’re doing...whatever this is.”

She obviously wanted to define it, but stopped. He noted that she’d looked away from him and walked across the space in front of him, turning just slightly so that she was on his right side. “Alright. That’s agreeable.”

He thought so too, since it wasn’t a good idea to go calling each other human names for something that wasn’t human, and _certainly_ wasn't just passing time.

“Oh, but Bull, I need to give you something.”

When he looked up, her hand brushed against his shoulder, warm, calloused hands against his biceps. That sweet, earthy smell that was _just_ sweet enough to smell like a warm, summer’s night caressed his nose, scrambling his senses enough to barely notice her lips pressing to his cheek.

She lingered there for a long while, a puff of air breezing past his ear. He could feel her smiling, too. Definitely smiling.

“You left quite a few marks on me,” she murmured into his ear. “I thought it’d be fitting to leave at least one on you, as a gift.” She smiled one of her pleasant, no, _smug_ smiles, which broke into a grin. “I’ll see you later, Bull.”

He couldn’t even force out a word in passing; when she was gone and the door shut behind her, a huge grin broke onto his face, warmth spreading through his belly as he laughed. “Shiiiiiiit,” he chuckled, mulling over his stroke of dumb luck. Blackwall was _seriously_ missing out.


	4. For Appearance's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's RED. Blood orange...! How pretentious.

“Keeper Lavellan, I have something for you.”

She was surprised that Vivienne had thought to pull her to the side, and was especially surprised when the grand enchanter offered her a small container with suspicious contents inside of it. “Mm? What’s this?”

“A salve, my dear. I use it in battle from time to time,” she seemed very careful about her offering, as though she was waiting for something else. “It’s much like vaseline, but it moisturizes where petroleum dries.”

“To keep up appearances?” Robin asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

“Of a sort. It conceals scars, and it has certain magical properties. An added protection for problem areas.”

The term ‘problem areas’ was not lost on her. But knowing Vivienne, this wasn’t about insults. “Problem areas of mine, specifically?”

“Oh, no, dear. Many people have similar ones.” A teasing sort of smile pulled at her lips in that serene way that Robin admired, though she sounded very matter-of-fact.

The Keeper suddenly wondered if that phrase was about her skin. “Even you?”

“Of a different sort, but yes.” She pressed it into Robin’s palm, covering her hand for a moment as she held her gaze. “If it reacts badly to your skin, do tell me. I order a new batch every month, and we wouldn’t want you breaking out in hives.”

Ah. “Thank you, Lady Vivienne. You’re very kind.” It certainly smelled wonderful.

“Don’t mention it, dear. It would be a shame if you suffered under the weight of your role in our Inquisition. You should never have to give up comfort for beauty,” with this, she put her helmet back on, nodding just slightly as she passed her. “Now then, where are we going today?”

Robin sort of smiled. “To find a few more Circle tomes.”

* * *

 

Though she knew next to nothing about Orlesian fashion, she had to admit that their fabrics were occasionally _gorgeous_. She’d never even been allowed in the shops before Val Royeaux, and even then it was mostly for weapons. The city was clean was very pretty to look at, and frankly, until she was there for more personal reasons (with some business reasons on the side) Robin realized that Orlais- no matter how much she hated it- certainly had its charms. The delicate patterning in golds, silvers, blues, and hues she’d never thought to see in clothing, shined before her eyes, twinkling like the sparkle of the cowl she’d noticed upon entering.

“Green is certainly your color, but I do wonder if you’d like to try purple or red instead,” Vivienne offered behind her. The grand enchanter looked quite thoughtful when Robin glanced back at her, and then realized that she was holding the sea-green fabric in her own hands.

“Usually I stay away from red. Red hair, you know,” she admitted.

“I have to agree with our Keeper,” Dorian put in from her right side. “Though red would go well with her complexion, you would have to be delicate about the coloring compared to her hair,” he grinned at her, “unless you’re in the business of dying it?”

“Never,” she scoffed, and Dorian tittered with delight, in the way rich people do when you agree with them.

Vivienne visibly rolled her eyes. Though both mages seemed to like Robin, they weren’t very nice to one another. “Darling, if you keep feeding the gremlin, he’ll be up to all night.”

Dorian’s grin became more pronounced, distinctly unkind but not uncivil. “I agree. That said, shouldn’t you be watching your own figure?”

“I’m not the one who feeds after midnight, darling.”

Robin pressed her lips together. It would be a good time to diffuse the situation with something silly, like, “Do you think this shade of yellow would compliment my eyes?”

They both seemed to take the bait, despite obviously being wise to what she was doing. “Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s horrid!” Cried Dorian.

“On _her_ it would be splendid.”

“...maybe. We might have to do a bit of fitting, though.” Both of them turned to her with curious (and somewhat critical) gazes, Vivienne taking in her stature, and Dorian with a sweeping gaze that made her feel like he was sizing her up.

“...you both look worrying-ah!” An ungodly sound escaped her as they directed her to the nearest changing room, Vivienne already chatting with the shop’s tailor about what fashions she should try.

Soon she was being pricked with needles by a seamstress who seemed put off by her frame; she was a bit top heavy, and her hips were quite wide for an elf, which usually meant she had to make her pants herself, but a _dress_ -

Hm. Maybe a dress would be better.

“Please stop poking me. I’m not a doll,” she half-bristled to the seamstress- who she knew was just doing her job- as she felt very much out of her element. “I have skin. Flesh, even. And I don’t want it clinging directly to my form. It needs to be easy on and off.”

Vivienne sort of nodded in approval. “I have to agree, my dear. We have no idea of what the Ball has in store for us.”

Dorian gave a look to say he knew that they sort of _did_ , but that Vivienne was being quiet about it. Better than to cause a fuss about how the Empress was probably going to die. “I think it would look nice with a bit of trimming around the arms.”

“I think that would be too much.”

Robin had no idea how it would look. Actually, all she really knew of the problem at hand was that she hated the color of the dress she currently had on. “I don’t want this one on me.”

“Of course not, Inquisitor. We’re just taking a few measurements.” Vivienne quipped, though she did tell the seamstress, “You heard her. She’s not a doll. And if you keep up with this care, the Inquisition will simply take our business elsewhere.”

“How about...blood orange?” Dorian was absolutely enthralled with the most beautiful fabric Robin had ever seen, its patterning shimmering in the light like an ocean.

Vivienne let out a short laugh. “You mean _red_?”

“It’s not red, it’s blood orange.”

“It’s _red_. We agreed not to do red.”

It was hard to describe Dorian’s expression, what with the mustache twitch and the tense but somewhat comical air around his disposition, especially when he suddenly spun away from them with that fabric, disappearing into the back of the boutique without another word. “I think you hurt his feelings,” Robin shook her head.

“If that was all it took to hurt him, he’d have died a long time ago,” Vivienne waved her hand in that careless manner she usually did when the matter was ‘neither here nor there’.

Disapproving greatly, the Keeper shook her head. “Why are you two always fighting about nothing?”

“Fighting?” Dorian’s voice came from behind her. “We’re being perfectly civil.”

Vivienne didn’t dignify this with a response at first, though she did tell Robin, “In Court, your greatest strength is getting other people to like you without letting on if _you_ like _them_. Tipping the scales in your own favor comes with a great amount of deception and grace.” She gestured to Dorian, who had already arranged a prettier pattern of fabric to be brought out, and then pressed her own hands together. “You may see them as fights or petty grievances, but we’ve perfectly set up our own boundaries with one another.”

“That is how you play the Game,” Dorian agreed. “Tricky sort, but simple once you only talk in sarcasm and witty one-liners.”

Her head tilted slightly, considering how terrible and _fascinating_ the act sounded. “So you do more than lie? You fabricate entire personalities for...posturing?”

Simultaneously, Vivienne said, “No,” as Dorian said, “Yes,” and then they looked at each other with slight disapproval and thinly veiled amusement (in that order).

“Agree to disagree?” Dorian offered.

Madame de Fer gestured in a way that was not altogether unkind, her lips pressing just slightly together before her fingertips pressed against one another and she addressed the Keeper again. “You see, my dear, if one thinks of it as simply posturing, you’ll never be any _good_ at it.”

“I beg to differ,” Dorian made a sweeping gesture, much like a bow. “ _I_ think that the less seriously you take it, the easier it is to do. It’s really all in how you look at it.”

She tilted her head ever-so, thoughtful about the new problem at hand. “So you’re saying, if I take it too lightly I might not pull it off...but if I take it _too_ seriously, I could get caught up in it?”

“Yes,” they both said at once, and seemed slightly pleased (and for Dorian, surprised) that they could agree on it.

Robin gave them one of her best royal titters, her hand raised as high as it could go in the direction of her lips (seeing as the seamstress had begun fussing over the sleeves and she tried to be careful) and winked. “I think I can read somewhere between the lines to make this favorable for us, then.”

“Wonderful! Beautiful laugh, by the way. Perfectly settled between a Magister and posh indoor salesman,” Dorian clapped his hands, and Vivienne sort of agreed.

“I’m glad you’re having fun, my dear,” it was clear she was trying to hide her own amusement, and Robin enjoyed that side of her, “But I do think you should decide on a color for the dress before the seamstress decides this one is your new birthday suit.”

“Oh-” She cursed, realizing her shoulders were stiff, locking her arms into the half-titter position that made her back ache a bit too much. “Dread Wolf be damned. Can someone help me move out of this without ripping the fabric?”

* * *

 

“You know, Keeper Lavellan, we don’t need to wait for another occasion like this to roll around before you’re outfitted properly.”

She was atop her mount on their way to the Winter Palace when she heard this, and her ears- slightly jittering in the cold- perked up just slightly when Vivienne said so beside her, her gaze towards the palace gates.

“Is there something wrong with the way I dress, Lady Vivienne?” She half-teased, her eyes scanning the nobles they would soon be entertaining- and eavesdropping on. It was already clear that this would be a long night, and though she admired the Court Enchanter greatly, there were some times in which she couldn’t entertain her double-speak. This was one of those times.

“Not at all, my dear. But armor can get a bit boring after a while,” her shoulders stiffened just slightly- she’d seen someone she knew- and the advisers in front of them, Josephine foremost, began making introductions. “I’m sure you would love some other choices of wardrobe- and my personal seamstress won’t poke and prod you like an amateur. Maybe in that green you favor. Or the red Dorian went on about- though not too red.” She scoffed, too. “‘Blood orange’.”

The corner of her lip pulled upward just a little bit; with a very quiet and businesslike expression, Robin turned her gaze to Vivienne, who met it with a glance. She could see very clearly now that her opinion on Vivienne had been correct in more ways than she could expect. “Really?”

“For appearance’s sake, of course,” Vivienne added, and though she did not smile, there was a funny little light dancing in her eyes.

She hadn’t missed the momentary stutter, the add-on to safe face, nor did she miss that light. In fact, she was glad for it. “I’d like that,” Robin smiled, and she inclined her head a bit. “For appearances, you know.” The Keeper found herself clearing her throat then, straightening her back as she exhaled to release all of her excess nerves. Experimentally, she pressed her lips together, sweeping a stray lock of short hair behind her ear before she asked, “...should I inform Dorian-”

“Don’t push your luck, darling.”


End file.
